


Theft

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Light Angst, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He pulls away and you chase his touch. That’s how this works.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Theft

His hands, _oh_ his hands. God, how clever they are. How thick his fingers are, but how gently they card through your hair. How gently he pets your head, how softly his carefully trimmed nails scratch at your scalp. Until he grasps you by the ponytail and _pulls,_ baring your throat to him. You’d like to think it’s just a parody of submission, but you’re still wet for him, aren’t you. 

You still spit and hiss and bite at his wrist, but when he raises an eyebrow and loosens his grip just a fraction you chase his hand and that’s the game, isn’t it? He pulls back and you follow, always. In bathrooms and barrooms, in the filthy forgotten corners of your life, he grips at you and you chase his touch. 

When he comes back tired and hungry and hurt, when the mission is over and the smoke has cleared, it’s you who he comes to, you whose fingers he grips and stabs into his own bruises, marking them over with your fingerprints. 

And he smirks, and calls you the _filthiest_ names, and he presses his fingers into the hollow of your throat until you see stars. Until the next gasp of air is the sweetest you’ve ever had, and the next after that is even sweeter because it’s filled with the taste of him, of a kiss that feels stolen even though he’s the one who presses it onto you, who breathes his secrets into your lungs where you lie bound and writhing. 

And he’s fully dressed through all of this, same as always, jacket off and barefoot but otherwise buttoned to the neck, closed off but you still feel his heat, still pull at your cuffs and whine to get your hands on him. But he doesn’t let you, never lets you unless it’s his hand pressing yours into his skin, his hand covering yours and leading it where he wants it to go. 

But _oh_ his hands. They’re everywhere at once, stroking down your sides, opening the buttons of your shirt and pushing it aside. He slips his fingers across the hollows of your ribs and you laugh, ticklish. He draws his fingers low across your belly and you aren’t laughing anymore. Your whole mind is just want and want and _please let me touch_. You never get to touch. It’s so cruel, so unfair. You see the way his shirts hang from his frame, he’s huge under there and you want to get your hands on him. Want to grasp and twist at his nipples to see if it’ll make him howl. Want to tug the hair that must cover his belly. But if you ask he says no and the game is over, so you don’t ask anymore. 

He fucks you like he’s stealing something precious. He slides his hands under your shoulderblades so he can pull you up chest to chest, so you can feel the warm heavy weight of him against you. It’s all the apology you’ll get for the fact that, for all the times you’ve done this, you still don’t know what he feels like under your hands. He’ll place your hand, press it where and how he likes, but you crave the feeling of just running your fingers up and down his flesh, of surprising him with a touch. 

He fucks you like you’ll slip away if he stops touching you so he keeps touching and touching, and when you clench and shiver apart around him he still touches. Still drives you forward again and again until it hurts him, until he’s sweating and shaking and you’re crying with how terribly unbearable it is. Until you’re certain the next touch will actually kill you, but he’s already stealing the tears from your cheeks, already breathing in the words you whisper to him because your voice is too wrecked for anything more. _Stay_ , you whisper. _Lie here with me._ And he could, he could, there’s room in this bed for two, room for him here with you, but he doesn’t stay. He never does.


End file.
